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BEING A MEMOIR OF 



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Russell Powell Jacoby 



AND A SELECTION OF HIS BEST POEMS. 



EDITED BV 

OLIVER HUCKEL. 



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BALTIMORE ; 



JOHN S. BRIDGES & CO. 



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Copyright, 1900, 
By OLIVER HUCKEL. 



^ CONTENTS. 



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I 



Portrait Facing Frontispage 



-** Memorial Poem — Dr. Thomas Dufin English 



A Tribute — " The Newark Evening News," 

^ Memoir — Rev. Oliver Huckel 

Memorial Sonnet — Mr. IVm. Hooper Howells 
An Appreciation — Mr. Henry Abbott Steel 



II 
13 
15 
27 
29 



POEMS. 

The Message of the Carpenter 35 

Labor in Chains 41 

The Fortress of a Lie 43 

Mars 45 

The Great Poet 47 

On the Seas 51 

Now to the City's Thirsty Lips 52 

Lincoln (Sonnet) 59 

Grant (Sonnet) 60 



The Last Victory (Sonnet) 62 

Sir Moses Montefiori (Sonnet) 63 

Greely's Return 64 

Black Ben 67 

Who Loves 70 

The Song of Songs 72 

At the Theatre 74 

Love and Selfishness 75 

My World 76 

Dear One of Mine (Song) 77 

St. Valentine's Day 78 

My Love (Her Portrait) 81 

The Wild Flowers 82 

Mother Erin Speaks 84 

Farewell to Erin 86 

A Frind ofthe Family 88 

On the St. Lawrence 97 

The Hopeful Lover 98 

November 99 

Christmas Day (A Hymn) loi 

New Year's Day 103 

New Year's Song 104 

Woman's Prescience (Sonnet) 107 

High Ideals (Sonnet) 108 

The Minstrel's Song 109 



Baldur the Good iii 

The Legend of Tannhauser ii6 

The Vision of Judas Maccabeus 130 

How Few Are the Days 136 

Our Hope Thou Hast Been 139 

How Still the Night 143 

When This Man Died 147 



RUSSELL POWELL JACOBY. 

{Memorial Poem.) 

Pulseless the heart that throbbed with joy or woe, 
When good or ill to others round him came ; 

And never from his brain the thoughts shall flow 
Which bade so fair to build their owner's fame. 

Gone is the genial smile which gave delight, 
The frank expression on that honest face, 

Silent the pen that urged the cause of right. 
Voiceless the utterance never out of place. 

I miss his presence in my daily walk, 
I miss the kindly pressure of his hand, 

I miss his pleasant unpresuming talk, 
The gentle mood that could at need command. 

And yet I cannot think him dead, it seems 
As though he travels for surcease of care ; 

I see him in the night time in my dreams, 
A figure that on waking lingers there. 



He lives, and so we keep his memory green, 
He will return, or we to him shall go. 

And thus we wend our way with placid mein, 
For we shall meet again — that much we know. 

Let kindred earth his lifeless form enclose. 
Place at his head to mark the spot a stone ; 

Plant roses on the grave — he loved the rose, — 
Then leave him to his slumber long and lone. 

— Thomas Dunn English. 
Newark, N. J., Feb. 6th, 1900. 



A TRIBUTE. 

" The best gifts of heart and of mind were happily 
blended in him ; .... a clear, rich intellect, ever 
logical and ever busy, and an industry and an 
earnestness that were an inspiration to those whose 
good fortune it was to be his associates and com- 
rades. His strong mentality was balanced by a 
gentle spirituality that placed him apart. His 
unselfishness was complete ; he was kind and gen- 
erous, and his natural, unaffected, unobstrusive 
presence was ever radiating a gentle glow of hope 
and cheer where hope and cheer were needed most. 
To his friends he was a constant delight ; to his 
associates his taking off is a bereavement, indeed, 
but one that flowers with the sweetest memories." 
— From an Editorial in " The Evening News,'" 
Newark, N. J., October 20, i8gg. 



iWetnotr. 



One whose life was absolutely pure and true, whose 
purposes were continually high and noble, whose deeds 
were generous and heroic, and whose soul was full of 
music and radiant with strength and beauty, comes 
close to us in this volume. 

It is a revelation, meagre but uplifting, of a heart 
worth knowing, and a life worth loving. 

And a friend who knew him closely and loved him 
well, writes these memorial words as a glad privilege 
and a happy labor of love. 

These were the brief facts of his life. Russell Powell 
Jacoby was born July 22nd, 1862, at the village of 
Flourtown, in Montgomery County, just outside of 
Philadelphia. He was educated in the schools of Spring- 
field township and later in Philadelphia, and graduated 
at the Central High School in 1881. One of his noblest 
poems, " The Legend of Tannhauser," was given as 



i6 Russell Powell Jacoby 

his part at the commencement exercises of that year. 
Immediately he became connected with The Times of 
Philadelphia, with which he remained for two years or 
more. Then, with the idea of studying law, he took 
a position upon The Evening Telegraph in order that 
he might have more time to devote to his studies. 
But he ultimately abandoned that purpose and on 
special offers went to Newark, New Jersey, in 1883, in 
connection with Mr. Henry Abbott Steel, to establish a 
new paper, The Neiuark Evening News. He was city 
editor of that paper from the start, and later managing 
editor, and was about to be made editor-in-chief when 
his health failed and the end came. The Evening News 
was a success from the first, and to that work he gave his 
whole energy and strength of mind and body. 

He married Miss Rebecca Cooper, of Newark, in 1897, 
and to them was born one little daughter, Margaret. 
The first indications of Mr. Jacoby's serious illness 
occurred in the summer of 1899, and in September, 
on the advice of his physician, he went to Canon City, 
Colorado, hoping that the climate would be beneficial. 
But he grew rapidly worse, and died on October ig, in 
his thirty-eighthth year, at the house of a friend, Mr. 
Clark Cooper, of Canon City. Mrs. Jacoby was with 
him at the end. 



Russell Powell Jacoby. 17 

The funeral took place at his native place, Flour- 
town. The services were held in the First Presbyterian 
Church, and were conducted by Rev. A. W. Long, the 
pastor of the church, assisted by Rev. Oliver Huckel, 
of Baltimore, who made the memorial address. A 
large number of friends were present from Newark, 
New York, Brooklyn, Philadelphia and Baltimore, and 
the entire population of the community gathered to 
render their lact tribute of respect and affection. 

At sunset-time, on this perfect October day, the 
body of Russell Powell Jacoby was laid to rest in the 
quiet cemetery under the shadow of the church. 

These are the outline facts. But how much between ! 

What a noble fellow he was ! One of God's noble- 
men ! He was always my hero since first I knew him, 
from the time when we were schoolboys together. He 
was my Sir Galahad, " whose strength was as the 
strength of ten because his heart was pure." He was 
so valiant and knightly in thought and deed, — so noble 
in face, so pure in life, so generous of heart, so brilliant 
in mind, so true and lofty in spirit ! 

His heart was brimming full with pleasantness. It 
was always such joy to be with him, such a bath in 
God's sunshine of cheeriness to spend an hour with 
him ! 



i8 Russell Powell Jacoby. 

And how bright and original he was in his way of 
seeing things and putting things ! There was a con- 
stant wit and wisdom that bubbled over from the foun- 
tain of a full heart and mind. 

And how affectionate he was, and how generous ! 
He was the very soul of generosity. He would do 
anything for a friend, even imperil his own interests or 
impoverish his own means. 

And he was so faithful and true ! He was abso- 
lutely honest and ingenuous. His character was crys- 
tal clear, beautiful through and through. There was 
never a meanness or dishonesty. His nature seemed 
incapable of such things. His business threw him into 
contact with all sorts and conditions of men, but he 
was always the soul of courtesy and honor. He was a 
man who could be absolutely trusted. He inspired 
unswerving confidence and reliance. 

He was practical and painstaking ; he was an enor- 
mous worker ; he wore himself out by his incessant 
work. His death was doubtless due to overwork, caus- 
ing nervous exhaustion, then a severe cold in that weak 
condition, followed by pulmonary troubles and compli- 
cations. 

He was an incessant worker in the hardest and most 
practical lines. It is a wonder that in the midst of his 



Russell Powell Jacoby. ig 

taxing business interests, he could find heart or time 
for devotion to the muse. But such opportunities came 
because they must come, — they were a part of his na- 
ture. In spite of his practical capacity, he was essen- 
tially a poet. He loved poetry and made it his dream 
and his delight. He began to compose verses when he 
was only three years old, and all his life he was devoted 
to it. His last day on earth was full of it, — new thoughts, 
old quotations and the gestures of scanning. 

Indeed his whole life was a poem. 

He looked the poet — spirituelle and yet strong in 
countenance. He was Byronic in beauty in his young 
manhood or better yet with his good German blood, he 
was a perfect Saxon type of fair and strong manhood. 
He had a Greek head and finely chiselled features like 
the youthful Hermes of Olympia. It was genuine 
poetry that he wrote. It had the right ring to it. His 
gifts as a poet were of singularly rare and pure qual- 
ity. His first ambitious poem, "The Legend of Tann- 
hauser," caused him to be heralded as a dawning gen- 
ius. At the time that he delivered this poem at Asso- 
ciation Hall, Philadelphia, he was 19 years old, and a 
prominent paper said of him, — "Mr. Jacoby is tall in 
stature, and flexible and graceful in form, with a fine, 
earnest, intellectual yet ingenuous face, and a voice full 



20 Russell Powell Jacoby. 

of poetic suavity," and of his poem — " It reveals a de- 
gree of verbal facility, and a maturity of feeling and ob- 
servation which promise great things, as the powers of 
the author find more adequate development." He 
wrote humorous poetry bright and sparkhng ; memor- 
ial verses full of pathos and beauty, and much religious 
poetry, fresh and strong in treatment. Everything 
that he touched in verse was touched to beauty. 

And yet, with all his gifts and graces, he was so 
modest, so deferential to the opinions of others, so 
shrinking from ostentation, so beautifully courteous to 
everybody and in everything ! I think that he never 
had an enemy. Everybody liked him. He was a uni- 
versal favorite in his school-days, — a most genial com- 
panion and a brilliant student. And the same happy 
and enthusiastic nature was maintained to the last and 
made friends for him everywhere. 

He was deeply interested in social reform and hear- 
tily espoused the cause of the workingman. The poem 
Labor in Chains is typical of his feeling. He was 
fond of William Morris, both as literary artist and prac- 
tical socialist, was an admirer of the spirit and work of 
Henry George, and was a contributor to John Swin- 
ton's Paper. 

Of his religious life, I may also say a word, for I 



Russell Powell Jacoby. 21 

knew his inner spirit perhaps as well as any one, for he 
was to me a heart-friend, and we talked together often 
and unreservedly of the deepest things of life, death 
and eternity. His conception of Christianity was very 
simple. He always emphasized the practical aspects, 
as in The Message of the Carpenter. His religious 
thinking as he grew more mature became less tradi- 
tional and conventional, but always was vitally true and 
close to the spirit of the gospel. He was deeply in- 
terested in Tolstoi's religious doctrines. But always he 
had a rich spiritual nature, a rare insight into divine 
things and the deepest reverence. Something of this 
must be put to inheritance. His father's ancestors were 
members of the Schwenkfelder community, one of the 
societies of German mystics, like the Mennonites, Dunk- 
ards, Amish and Moravians who came early to Penn- 
sylvania for religious freedom, and his mother, of the 
Heydrick family, was of a distinctly religious and poetic 
temperament. Much of his love of poetry was a direct 
gift from her fine nature. 

His poems are full of the flowerings of a beautiful 
religious spirit. And his life was as noble as his verse. 
The last book that he sent me was Bishop Andrewe's 
Private Devotions, a book of prayers and meditations 
that had pleased him by its simplicity and beauty. He 



22 Russell Powell Jacoby. 

was as good a man as I ever knew, — so thoroughly sin- 
cere, true, honest, pure and heroic. He wore the white 
flower of a blameless life. I grow enthusiastic as I 
think of his nobleness, and I thank God for him. 

He lived a noble life, he kept a clean record, he was 
faithful to all his trusts, and he has left us a brilliant 
and unblemished and lovable memory. 

He was taken in the plenitude and glory of his life, 
and will always live within our memories in the strength 
and nobleness of his youth, never old or decrepit, but 
always aureoled with beautiful immortal youth. 

His last conscious words were "Good-night, dear 
love" to his loving and faithful wife. It was a last liv- 
ing good-night, until the eternal morning, — until the 
day breaks and the shadows flee away. 

During his last days on earth he scarcely knew 
those around him. He seemed to be living in another 
world. It was not the past that he was remembering 
and rehearsing, but he was looking forward into the 
future. 

He spoke of fighting the last fight — " play well your 
part, quit you like men." He knew that he was in his 
last fight, the fight with death, but he was brave and 
valiant to the last. 

He spoke of climbing the high Alps as if to catch 



Russell Powell Jacoby. 2j 

vision of the wide expanse. Was it not a premonition 
of the opening glory of the vision of heavenly things 
unfolding before his eyes ? 

He spoke of those that go down to the sea in ships. 
Might it not be the thought of embarking on the great 
ocean of eternity ? 

His thoughts were beautiful and noble to the last. 

His career was so full of usefulness. So many were 
looking to him with eager expectancy, as, year by year, 
he fulfilled his splendid promise in larger ways. So 
many looked to him for comfort and strength. He 
had everything to live for, — bright and vigorous youth, 
great usefulness, brilliant success in his chosen pro- 
fession, a family who loved him, a noble wife, a darling 
child and hosts of warm friends. 

But suddenly his splendid career was stopped, and 
all was still. His life was like a letter with the first few 
sentences written, then the pen dropped, — never to be 
taken up again. His life was like a burst of music 
heard for a few minutes only as the great ocean 
steamer moves away into the mid-stream and into the 
fog as it starts out on its long voyage on the great 
deep. 

But he has left to us fragrant memories of a noble 
life, and some glimpses into his mind and heart in a 



24 Russell Powell Jacoby. 

few prose writings, and some hundred or more poems 
which beautifully reveal the man. 

His prose work was largely devoted to special and 
editorial articles on current topics, and has not been 
collected or preserved. But several very clever fairy- 
stories by him were printed in various periodicals. 
One was called " The Sword Invincible " ; another, 
" Oisin, the Last of the Feni " ; another, " The Sad 
Court of Klowdes " ; which are, in their way, most 
unique romances ; and among his papers was found a 
vigorous drama, outlined, but only partially completed, 
with the scene laid in Revolutionary days in Phila- 
delphia, called " Wedded by Lot." 

One trait must not be forgotten that was in evidence 
throughout his life, — a deep love for Ireland, and the 
literature and lore of Ireland. His father was the 
owner of iron mines at Flourtown ; many of his own 
days and holidays were spent in the mines, and his 
early association with the miners, some of them good 
loyal Irishmen, doubtless had its effect in interesting 
him in their land and lore. 

He was of German ancestry on both sides, but noth- 
ing German appealed to him so deeply as the cause and 
the character of the land of Erin. He loved the Irish 
poets and the Irish legends. He was a master of Irish 



Rtcssell Powell Jacoby. 25 

dialect, and when he married he chose for his wife a 
native of the North of Ireland, of good old Belfast 
Presbyterian stock. One of his earlier poems called 
A Frind of the Family is an illustration of his consum- 
mate art of Irish story-telling, and some of the latter 
poems, like On the St. Lawrence, Mother Erin Speaks, 
The Wild Flowers and Farewell to Erin, — poems writ- 
ten to his wife, — show that the same bubbling fountain 
of wit and grace and beauty had its happy source in a 
passionate love of Ireland. 

The poems that are presented in this volume are the 
best fifty selected from a hundred or more that he left 
in portfolios and scrap-books. He had begun to write 
early, and much of his earlier work showed brilliancy 
and promise, but lacked the maturity of his later years. 
The arrangement of the poems given here is not chro- 
nological, but in groups that seem to have some relation. 
The selection was made with the single thought — What 
would he care to have preserved and made public ? I 
know how fastidious he was in this matter. What is 
given in this volume is principally his maturer verse 
written in his last ten years, with here and there a speci- 
men of his earlier verse. 

Such poems as Mars, The Great Poet and The 
Message of the Carpenter are among his very latest 



26 Russell Powell Jacoby. 

work, and certainly are among his strongest and best. 
His gifts were constantly ripening and maturing. And 
the best that is now preserved is but a prophecy of the 
strong and splendid work that might yet have been 
done had he been spared to fulfill the rich promise of 
his young manhood. 

The sweetest passages of Tennyson's In Memoriam, 
written for a friend like this, come to me as I think 
of this great loss. Milton's Lycidas and Shelley's 
Adonais are also appropriate tributes to him, for he 
was one of that heavenly choir of spirits consecrate and 
pure. Shelley the poet died young. Keats the poet 
died young. They were masters. This was a younger 
brother, a minor brother, but true and exquisitely fine 
and noble in thought and expression. He belonged to 
their noble company, and loved them. 

Oliver Huckel. 
Baltimore, lo February, 1900. 



RUSSELL POWELL JACOBY. 

{Memorial Sonnet.) 

God rest thee, loyal spirit, gone too soon ; 

But not in vain thy work, thy life so true ; 

Our ways seem brighter, thinking, friend, of you 
And that high courage which dispelled the gloom 
From many a darkling hour, and gave us room 

To see through clouds the everlasting blue ; 

Out of the flagon which now brims with rue 
We make a vase where tender flowers may bloom. 
If, as they say, that fittest souls alone 

Survive and enter the immortal rest. 
Thy fate is well assured. Anigh the throne 

Already thou art numbered with the blest ; 
There, where the loving, self-forgetting are. 

Thy mantle shows the radiance of a star. 

— Wtn. Hooper Howells. 
Newark, October 20, 1899. 



an appreciation. 



This is an attempt to realize the charm of a sunny 
life. It is an essay to catch the gleam of a luminous 
mind. It is a venture to present the grace of an 
all-too-brief career spent in the hurly-burly of the 
strenuous life of the closing years of the nineteenth 
century. 

Russell Powell Jacoby left school, while still young, 
to take up the work of a newspaper maker. He began 
at the beginning, and worked and won his way to the 
uppermost rounds of the journalistic ladder. The 
characteristics of the boy foreshadowed the man. He 
strove diligently and with a light heart. He was a fine 
example of both intellect and industry. It was his 
nature to be doing, just as it was his nature to share 
the misfortunes of his friends. He could no more 
resist the doing of an appreciated duty than he could 
resist the welling sympathy for those " submerged " 
members of society who brought their wants, their 



JO Russell Powell Jacoby. 

woes and their follies to his attention. And the num- 
ber of these was not small. His left hand was never 
permitted to know of the benefactions of his right. 
No one ever knew of the dispensations of this sturdy 
worker and gentle dreamer. He worked with a song 
in his heart ; while he was up and doing and singing, 
he dreamed constantly of the dawn of a new day, when 
the want and the misery of the masses would be miti- 
gated. He rarely advanced his social theories in his 
writings. He urged them with splendid earnestness in 
his conversations. On the other hand, his religious 
nature is revealed in his writings, although in his 
conversations he seldom discussed religious points. 
He was naturally religious, just as he was naturally 
generous and naturally refined. These qualities were 
innate. 

The influence which Mr. Jacoby's personality exerted 
on his friends and associates was pronounced. His 
gentle spirit diffused a warmth that affected all who 
came in contact with him. This was not the conse- 
quence of an abounding flow of animal spirits ; his 
personal equation was a blithesome geniality. Yet his 
delicate good nature was yoked with a high manly 
courage. When it came to grappling with the false 
and the unworthy, what a fight he could make ! When 



Russell Powell Jacoby. ji 

Sham intruded its smug face, and smirking Pretense 
ambled to the front clothed in the livery of Truth, he 
was a champion that never tired of doing his share of 
the work of upholding the cause of Right. In him 
were united the spirit of the poet and the temper of 
the knight. 

How naturally the unrestrained pen drifts from dis- 
passionate memorial into the lines of superlative enco- 
mium ! Such is the tribute which the bereaved heart 
pays to tender memory. But in this attempt to appre- 
ciate the character of Russell Powell Jacoby, it would 
be superfluous to indulge the license of the panygerist. 
A gentle individuality given over to industry ; a man 
whose goodness increased with his years ; a poet 
whose song was of hope and of peace ; a friend whose 
friendship endured all tests ; a gentleman who realized 
in his thoughts and his conduct the ideal of that too 
rare chivalrous class ; a Christian whose creed was 
bound by no narrow limits, — the plain telling of the 
virtues of this man, a modest attempt to depict the 
charm of his personality, is a more fitting memorial 
than the most fluent tribute of the panegyrist possibly 
could be. 

Henry Abbott Steel, 

Philadelphia, February 8, 1900. 



^oems 



THE MESSAGE OF THE CARPENTER. 



Once to a man unlearned and poor, a lofty thought 

there came, 
That service, love and kindliness we owe to all the same ; 

That when we look on them that sin and suffer we 

should see 
The warrant to our brotherhood in their humanity. 

Not from the sages of the past, though some had wisely 

taught 
The way to good and happiness by Duty's path, he 

sought ; 

But simply, with the noblest thought that Love's sweet 

name we call. 
He gave his service, life and heart not unto one but all. 



^6 The Message of the Carpenter. 

This man was young in years, and yet was old enough 

to know 
Our love and joy and grief (It brings him near to think 

it so.) 

His gentle creed he even may have learned at cruel 

cost. 
Oh ! mystery of love and death ! Perhaps have loved 

and lost. 

It was a time when all the lands were cursed by force 

and greed, 
When cruel men oppressed the poor and fattened on 

their need ; 

When schismatics with bitter zeal and fierce fanatic pride 
Strode heedless of the misery that to dumb Heaven 
cried, 

When revelled at the palace board, ambition, lust and 
hate, 



The Message of the Carpenter. jy 

While, famine, grim and hollow-eyed, crouched cursing 
at the gate. 

It was a time whose spirit spoke in thirst for power and 

gains, 
A day of masters and of slaves, of scourges, swords 

and chains. 



There came a day when in his heart that thought so 

fiercely burned, 
He knew the call to speak it forth, and from his bench 

he turned, 

To bear his message unto men, and some when they 

received, 
Beheld its beauty and its truth, and followed and 

believed. 

It was no tangled scheme he wove, no labored system 
planned, 



^8 The Message of the Carpenter. 

He spoke the words of love and hope that all might 
understand : 

That wiser far than they that strive for power, fame or 

wealth, 
Are they who find delight in sweet forgetfulness of self ; 

That pleasure loud as duty calls on every man to bless 
His brother with unfailing care and tender kindliness. 

Yet though he spake : " Resist not ill," with stern indig- 
nant eyes 

He turned on them that robbed the poor or fed their 
faith on lies. 

And so his foes were fierce and strong, and still the 

wrath increased. 
Of bigot and of usurer, of ruler and of priest. 

They feared the doctrine that he taught. They felt with 
quaking hearts 



The Message of the Carpenter. jp 

The trembling of their ancient law, their temples and 
their marts. 

But, constant to his message still, he bore it far and wide, 
And though he knew their hate and power was yet 
unterrified. 



What marvel that in holy zeal he felt his thought divine 
And in the face of God beheld his own compassion 
shine ? 

So clear that though when death was near in shame 

and agony, 
" My God ! My God ! " he cried," " Oh why hast thou 

forsaken me ? " 

Yet at the end assurance came, and confident in prayer, 
His sinking soul was undismayed, — the Father's arms 
were there. 



40 The Message of the Carpenter. 

But many who have heard his word, its message still 

despise, 
They call him holy, just and pure. They do not think 

him wise. 

The love that was to him a joy and duty plain and real, 
They hold a vision and a dream, a distant dim ideal. 

Their lives are set on other lines, they strive for other 

ends, 
And yet with life's discordant notes, strange music 

sometimes blends. 

And then they feel within their hearts the truth for 

which he died, 
That love is all in all : and then — They straightway 

turn aside 

To seek for hidden mysteries in all his kindly deeds. 
And darken all his loving words with legends and with 
creeds. 



LABOR IN CHAINS. 



He stands before the rich and great, 
Like captive Samson bUnd and bound, 
And winds his mighty arms around 

The lofty pillars of the State. 

From lips of brass and hearts of stone. 
Around him slaves and masters raise 
Their songs of worship, fear and praise, 

To Mammon perched on Dagon's throne. 

He hears, and all his pulses thrill — 
Not to the measure of their song — 
To memories of want and wrong 

And toiling in the prison mill. 



^2 Labor in Chains. 

Oh, hope deferred and longing vain ! 

Oh, gyved limbs that once were free ! 

Oh, scarred eyes that may not see ! 
Oh, breaking heart and reeling brain ! 

All careless of his misery, 

Or mocking him, the rulers stand. — 
Will no man take him by the hand 

And lead him forth and set him free ? 



THE FORTRESS OF A LIE. 



Though men to build a fortress for a lie 

Should toil like Titans for a thousand years, 
Cement its walls with ashes, blood and tears, 

And raise its frowning ramparts mountain high, 

Vain were the task. To set the people free 
Some knightly hero should at last arise, 
And drag their idol forth before their eyes 

In all its naked vile deformity. 

Ah, foolish builders that lay stone on stone 
In cunning masonry in Error's wall ! 
Ye do but build the ruin of the fall 

When these high towers shall be overthrown. 



44 The Fortress of a Lie. 

And vainly ye your trusted guards do set 
To vigil keep o'er your unhallowed hold 
Giant Terror, Avarice, in proof of gold, 

And Superstition on the parapet. 



In Error's hall runs riot high and fast 
They mock at misery, they sneer at hate, — 
But hark ! An awful summons at the gate ! 

Aye hark ! 'Tis Truth's avenging trumpet's blast. 



MARS. 

I 

On that red wanderer of the ebon seas 

The students gazed, and to their cunning store 

Of truth and speculation, more and more 
They added by laborious degrees. 
Yet still unsolved its greater mysteries 

Remained. What life is on that luminous shore ? 

What love ? What knowledge ? What quick fancies 
soar 
To seek our earth ? What keen anxieties 
And longings may for us have signals planned ? 

" These things," the students said, " unfathomed are, 
And men shall never know nor understand." 

Meantime a baby at the light afar 
Snatched quickly, and as he unclosed his hand 

Much marvelled that he had not caught the star. 



46 Mars. 

II 

But one weak woman — she that died last night, 
So worn with pain, that even God's behest 
We thought could bring no better boon than rest 

To her — fared forth in strong exultant flight 

On wings of peace, and did at last alight 

On that fair world. She tarried in her quest 
Of brighter realms, and said : " It showeth best 

The love of God that in the first delight 

Wherewith the soul to its new freedom springs, 
Exploring the illimitable spaces, 

It hath no long and lonely wanderings, 

But close to earth finds pleasant resting places, 

So near that all unwearied are my wings, 

And I can still behold my loved ones' faces." 



THE GREAT POET. 



When the great Poet, he 

Who crowned shall be 
Through countless aeons still the king 

Of them that sing, 
Shall at the last appear upon the earth, 
To make its riven harmonies complete, 

Will we his worth 
Behold, and strew the laurel at his feet ? 

Or will his song for years 

On heedless ears 
Fall vain as seed from sower's hands 

On desert lands ? 
Will fame for him throw wide her temple's gate ? 
Or will he vainly beat against the bars, 

Lone, desolate. 
The lordly spirit that would scale the stars ? 



? The Great Poet. 

Rather shall this thing be 

His destiny : 
Not fame nor lowliness his fate, 

His portion, hate. 
The world, in craft of age and crown of pride, 
Hath ever its old spirit. In its youth 

It crucified 
The prophets and the Prince of Peace and Truth. 

To it his living word 

Shall be a sword. 
For truth his vehement desire, 

A plague of fire. 
For state, and law, and custom, fame and mart 
Shall feel his scourge, till men cry out in rage 

Against his art. 
And this shall be the story of his age : — 

" The blind receive their sight — 
And curse the light. 



The Great Poet. 4g 

And deaf men hear — and in reply 

For silence cry. 
The halt whose palsied limbs are stirred 
Cry out in pain. The coward makes acclaim, 

' Oh fatal word 
That turned my cool and tranquil blood to flame.' 

" From them that bite the dust 

For Power's lust 
Kings trembling on their lofty thrones 

Hear shrieks and groans. 
The rich, when riot rules the feast, 
Hear, still and small, yet terrible, the cry 

Of 'een the least 
Who toil on hungered and a hungered die." 

Then laws that ruled above 
The law of love, 
Old forms with dust of ages gray. 
Pass slow away. 



^o The Great Poet. 

Sure as the sea's resistless tides 

Doth swell the power that makes the song sublime, 

Till freedom rides 
A conqueror along the ranks of Time. 

Old chains and fetters break, 

With Truth awake. 
In vain black Error's armies fight 

Against the light. 
What matter though the Poet toil in tears 
And die ere harvest glory crown the field ? 

A thousand years 
Shall reapers gather in the golden yield. 



ON THE SEAS. 



On the waves there be boats that glide, 
Fragile toys of the wind and tide, 
And mighty ships that seem to be 
Floating fortresses of the sea. 

Yet, sometimes when the heavens frown, 
The stoutest barks of them all go down. 
And, dancing over the waves in sport. 
The skiff of the fisher makes the port. 

So it is with the fleets that sail 
Hope's broad billow on fortune's gale. 
Some built for cargoes rich and rare, 
Some with little of toil or care. 

Often into the port of fate, 
Only the skiffs bring home their freight. 
And the murmured dirge of wind and seas. 
Swells for our sunken argosies. 



NOW TO THE THIRSTY CITY'S EAGER LIPS. 

[Written on the occasion of the opening of the new water supply for 
the city of Newark, N. J.] 



Now to the Thirsty City's eager lips 

Is pressed a draught as pure and sweet 
As a fair maiden sips ; 

When on a summer day her idly wandering feet 
Bear her to some lone dell, where murmurings 

Of mountain springs 
Make music to wild flowers ; 

And, shaping of her hollowed palms a cup, 
She dips them in the grateful little stream, 

And gathers up 
Its gift, that from her rosy fingers showers 

In drops that like white scattered jewels gleam. 



Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. jj 

It was not so — 

Not such light, random, easy conquest gained 
The treasure guerdon of Pequannock's rills. 

Men for the stream built prisons in the hills. 
Its might they chained. 

And balking its endeavor to be free, 
They bade it grow 

For nobler service, higher destiny. 
Across the valleys where uncounted days, 

Wending their devious ways. 
The brook and river wandered aimlessly, 

Men reared their mighty bulwarks saying : "Here 
Thy restless current stay and do our will." 

Then slowly grew two placid lakes, until 
One climbed its prison wall, 

Adown the deep 
Rock-riven gorge to leap 

With thunderous call, 
As if to give that other captive cheer, — 



§4 Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. 

That slave, so fierce in love of liberty, 
That through the very rock on which were laid 

Its deep foundations of captivity, 
Its waters made 

Their cunning labyrinthian way ; 
At length 

In sunlight at the great wall's foot to play, 
And mock their scheming jailers' skill and strength. 

And then are blent 

Escaped waters, spirits turbulent 
Of storms that bent on rugged hills and bleak. 

With those that men release 
From the twin Bastiles' gates, 

Bidding them go in peace. 
And the far city seek 

That for their coming waits. 

Swiftly the waters glide. 
River and brook are met, 



Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. 55 

Meadows on either side. 

Tempted awhile to rest, 
May not the stream forget 

Whither its way is set ? 
Nay ; now, with swifter pace 

Beating its eager breast 
On the grim stones that He 

Full in its course, 
It enters the Place of the Hills, 

And is off on its race ; 
Gathering force 

From the rills 
That up on the mountain hear 

The message of courage and cheer 
Of its song, 

As it lashes itself to spray 
Beating the boulders. They long. 

With its strength to rejoice, 
To share in the fray. 



5<5 Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. 

They hasten each from his home, 
Crying with tinkhng voice 

To the river below : " We come ! 
Oh ! a part let us bear 

In the game of strife you play. 
Cool is the spring's retreat, 

The peace of the mountain is there, 
But the joy of battle is sweet ! " 

So that stream flows 

Between great hills where nature set her seal 
Of desolation and of loneliness, 

And ever grows 
Its power to cheer, to comfort and to bless. 

And where the waters eddy, foam and reel 
In the alembic of their turbulence 

More lustrous purity in strife they find. 

And now the last great barrier ! Behind 
That lake the jewel of the landscape Hes, 



Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. ^j 

Before the crystal cataract, and thence 

That dark and mighty gallery of steel 
Through which the blind and captive waters feel 

Their way : now climb the steep 
To some tall hill to rise ; 

Now plunge into the valley, now o'erleap 
Some kindred stream ; now burrow deep 

Beneath another, — till at last, 
The journey past. 

They, bursting from those miles of night 
Into the light. 

Crowd the great pitchers with exultant speed, 
Wherein the city stores 

The waters that she pours 
To fill the vessels of her children's need. 

Welcome, oh, living spring ! 

Nature's sweet child, 
Gracious and undefiled. 

Smiling and gay ! 



5<S Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. 

We see the Common Mother's kindliness 
In you reflected. Her best gifts you bring 

Of health and healing. Fever shrinks away 
At your calm coming, and the weary bless 

The draught that into their wan strength instils 
Some puissance of mountain fastnesses, 

And vigor of the fountains of the hills. 



LINCOLN. 



Among the giant faithful of the State, 

When Treason's eager daggers sought her breast, 
How towered that tall chieftain of the West 

Alone, of all, the one entirely great. 

In lowly station had he conquered fate 
With toiling hands, and now the kingliest 
Of souls his stood in its tremendous test, 

Prophetic, quick to do, and brave to wait : 

'Midst clashing factions, strong in constancy. 
His mirth more wisdom than the sages knew, 

Majestic in august simplicity. — 
Columbia, to her preserver true. 

Shall point to him when searching students scan 

Her mighty works, and say, " Behold a man ! " 



GRANT. 

(^Died July 23, i88j.) 



Across the glory of the summer sun 

A shadow falls. 
A hero rests, the battle fought and won, 

In death's dim halls. 

For him no loud alarum drums shall beat, 

No bugles shrill 
Sound their stern summons. Triumph is complete, 

And all is still. 

No shaft of malice, no man's villainy. 

Can harm him now. 
The seal of slumber's sweet security 

Is on his brow. 



Grant. 6i 

Yet, if in days to come, with thunder loud 

Of wrath of men, 
Upon the land he loved the battle cloud 

Shall lower again, 

The glory of his spirit and his name 

Shall burst the grave. 
And, like God's pillar of the cloud and flame, 

Lead on the brave. 



THE LAST VICTORY. 

(^In Memory of Grant?) 



Boast not, Black Angel, for the victory 

Is none of thine. Though over this cold clay, 
With saddened heart, a nation bows to-day, 

His is the triumph. Immortality 

Hath clasped his spirit to her bosom. He 

For whom his foemen's children learned to pray 
Lives on. Thy sword is powerless to slay 

Honor and love. It did but set him free 

From pain and bondage. The united land 
Shall be his great memorial, while the brave. 

Whose thirsty swords once clashed in battle, stand, 
A band of loving brothers, by his grave, 

And vow to serve with loyal heart and hand 
The flag whose glorious folds above them wave. 



SIR MOSES MONTEFIORE. 



Old man, to whom a grateful world to-day, 
Pushing aside the bonds of State and creeds. 
The honor due to years and noble deeds 

Seeks by its prayers and reverence to pay ; 

In thy grand life is Judah's ancient sway 

Restored. Unto her lordly throne succeeds 
A king, whose ministry to human needs 

Is title to the crown. Upon his way 

Death, passing, marks thy work and turns aside, 
Owning a power greater than his own. 

And loath to cast his barbed darts at thee, 

Who art to immortality allied 

By those strong ties which woven are alone 
By earnest, helpful love and charity. 



GREELY'S RETURN. 
{Ju7ie iQ, 1884.) 



Back from an Artie grave, 
Guarded by sea and night, 
Come they as spirits might 

The remnant of the brave. 

Six only of the band 

Who at the icy gate. 

Where Frost and Famine wait, 
Knocked with defiant hand. 

" Fierce Wardens of the North, 
Yield up the mysteries 
Of the grim Polar seas," 
Rang their proud summons forth. 

Out of that horrid hold 
Only a colder breath 
From the mute lips of Death 

Answered the challenge bold. 



Greely's Return. Sj) 

Ah, firmly, then, and well, 

Marched they at duty's call 

Into the Famine's thrall. 
Into the Frozen Hell ; 

Cheerful in deed and word. 

Through dreary months and years, 
Checking unbidden tears, 

Smiling at hope deferred. 

Fiercer grew hunger's pang 

Still, 'till a grisly guest 

Gnawed at each hollow breast. 
Famine with jackal fang. 

'Till at the bitter end 

Death, as his icy darts 

Pierced their devoted hearts, 
Seemed a beloved friend. 



66 Greely's Return. 

Honor to one and all, — 
Tears for the noble dead ; 
Love, hope and valor fled ; 

True hearts beneath the pall. 

What dost thou give, oh Sea, 
Skirting the frozen pole, 
What is thy niggard dole 

For that we give to thee ? 

Only of knowledge vain 
From thy accursed shore 
Win we a scanty store. 

Food for the idler's brain. 

For this the sacrifice, 

Brave hearts and sturdy hands, 
Pour from the foolish lands 

Unto thy altar-ice. 



BLACK BEN. 



The Colonel, scarred and gray. 

Sat in his big arm-chair, 

Smoothing the sunny hair 
Of the child, who, tired with play 

Coaxing said, as he climbed his knees, 

" Grand-pa, tell me a story, please." 

" I'll tell you a story true," 

The soldier said. " To me 

It happened in Tennessee 
When I was a boy like you, 

Twenty long years and more, before 

I shouldered a musket in the war. 

" I was out in the field 

Where a hundred slaves bent low 
Picking the summer snow 



68 Black Be7i. 

Only the South can yield ; 

The cotton, so royal fair a thing 
That men and nations crown it King. 

" Suddenly rose a cry 

Of warning shrill and dread, 
The frightened toilers fled 

Across the fields, and I 

Turned to follow ; over a stone 
Stumbled, fell, and was left alone. 

" Only a moment, then, — 

But an age of childish fear, — 
Swift as a startled deer 

Up darted big Black Ben, 

Caught me up and with heaving breath 
Bounded off in a race with death. 

" Covered with blood and foam 
A great mad dog gave chase, 
Ben stumbled in the race ; 



Black Ben. 6g 

" Run for your life boy, home," 
He said, and calmly took his stand 
To choke the brute with his naked hand. 

" Do not ask me for more, 

Such tales are not, my dear. 

For a child like you to hear, 
Of wounds and anguish sore, 

Of madness, shrieks and agony. 

Until the faithful slave was free. 

" Free in the quiet grave, 

Where woe and anguish cease. 

And blessed sleep and peace 
God giveth to the brave." 

The child looked up in shy surprise, 

Great tears were in the soldier's eyes. 



WHO LOVES. 



One sweet anticipation 

Doth all his life attend ; 
In sorrow, consolation ; 

In loneliness, a friend ; 
In hope, a star of glory ; 

In joy, the sunlight's gold ; 
In thought, a wondrous story ; 

Whose beauty is untold. 

It hath its balm for sorrow. 

It driveth care away. 
It is the bright to-morrow, 

To-day and yesterday. 
Past, present, future, blending. 

His loving spirit seems 
To taste the life unending. 

He dreams eternal dreams. 



JVho Loves. yi 

Doth adverse fate assail him ? 

He heedeth not her blows ; 
Love's panoply doth mail him 

Against a thousand foes. 
Life's petty strife vexatious 

He learneth to despise ; 
One thing is good and gracious, 

One only in his eyes. 

Wealth, honor or ambition 

He knows a boon above ; 
Whate'er another's mission, 

His glory is to love. 
More tender than a mother's, 

His heart has learned to share 
The joy above all others, 

The pain beyond compare. 



THE SONG OF SONGS." 



A sweeter song had Solomon the King, 

By love of one like thee been taught to sing. 

Then had he known a love that might inspire 
A nobler homage and a purer fire. 

Yet, as I read, I feel to thee belongs 

The sweetest music of the " Song of Songs." 

" Oh, thou art fair. Thy eyes the gentle dove 
Might have. A rose, a lily is my love. 

"And as the thorns to fairest lily be, 
So are all other women unto thee. 

"And thou art mine, by right beyond, above 
All else. My banner over thee is love. 



" The Song of Songs^ 73 

"Oh, thou art fair, my love ; oh, thou art fair ! 
Thy eyes, thy lips, thy brow, thy clustering hair. 

" Fragrance and beauty all ; about my heart 
Is bound a chain whose links shall never part. 

" Upon my brow and arm an amulet. 
The seal of love as strong as death, is set. 

"A flashing fire, fiame from the Lord is sent down 

Is love ; nor flame can quench, nor floods can drown." 

Oh, my beloved, hidden from our eyes, 
Perhaps, the mountains that we long for rise. 



AT THE THEATRE. 



" What may these mimic passions be, 

Compared," he said, " with love Hke ours ? 

The summer's fair and fragile flowers, 
Are they ; — and it, the eternal sea. 
They spring to being at a word. 

They fade and wither at a breath. 

// is as still and strong as death. 
Its depths by storms are never stirred." 



LOVE AND SELFISHNESS. 



True love is close akin to selfishness, — 

To pay its debt enricheth him who pays. 
Another serving, he himself doth bless ; 

His loyal bondage lightens all his days. 
We can no kindness do for those we love. 

No burdens bear, no sacrifice can make. 
Nor earth nor heaven hath any joy above 

The ills that we endure for their sweet sake. 



MY WORLD. 



Atlas in mythical days of yore 

The world on his stalwart shoulders bore. 

Yet strange as the boast may seem to be, 
I have proved myself more strong than he. 

He carried his world with toil and pain, 
With heaving bosom and sinews strain. 

I carried mine in my arms in state, 
And scarcely felt its precious weight. 



DEAR ONE OF MINE. 

{Song.) 



Dear one of mine, lovely and delicate flower, 
Ever thy worth, beauty and fragrance grow. 

Oh ! if my love had but to shield thee the power, 
Never the wind unkindly on thee should blow. 

Ever my care, loving should be and tender. 

Never the dew heavy or chill should be. 
From sun and storm would I be thy defender. 

All of the year summer should smile on thee. 



ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 



Tell me, gentle friend of mine, 
Do you think St. Valentine 
Can by any fortune know 
What is going on below, 

On this gay, 

Merry day 
That his honored name is bearing ? 

Can he see 

Love and glee 
Take their February airing ? 

Gentle lady, some may paint 
Valentine a sullen saint. 
Who would gaze with clouded brow 
On the throngs who praise him now ; 

Who would frown 

Darkly down 



St Valentine's Day. yg 

On the lover's melancholy ; 

But he seems 

To my dreams 
Strong and tender, kind and jolly. 

Gentle lady, when we bear 
To his shrine and offer there 
Stumbling rhymes aud painted hearts, 
Pierced by Cupid's savage darts ; 

And in staid 

Masquerade 
Pass in love-sick lines before him. 

Though his smile 

All the while 
On us beams, I fear we bore him. 

Gentle lady, unto me 
Count it not impiety 
That I think our patron kind 
In the day some fun may find ; 



8o St. Valentine's Day. 

May recall 

One and all 
Of its fancies, quaint and brittle, 

And rehearse 

Scraps of verse 
Till the angels laugh a little. 



MY LOVE. (Her Portrait.) 



My love is beautiful and sweet. 
All good and gentle graces meet 
In her, in loveliness complete. 

My love is precious. Nor for me 
In all this world on land or sea 
Can other worthy treasure be. 

My love is constant. In her eyes 
True, pure and steadfast, beauty lies 
Serene and noble as the skies. 



THE WILD FLOWERS. 

[To R. C] 



These little wild flowers I plucked on the mountains, 
Where lonely in beauty they modestly grew, 

" Though fairer are blooming by Erin's bright fountains, 
I said, " she perchance may give welcome to you. 

" Yet if for your journey her smile should content you, 
' Tis not by your merit her favor you find. 

As little deserving as he that hath sent you. 
You win it because she is gracious and kind." 

I showed them her face, and I said : " When you meet 
her, 

If aught of your spirit by time and the sea 
Be spared, don your brightest of colors to greet her 

And speak to her gently and kindly of me. 



The Wild Flowers. 8j 

" Sure yours is a hope that affection might cherish, 
A fate that its fondest ambition might prize, — 

To deepen though but by a shade as you perish 
The bloom of her cheek and the light of her eyes." 



MOTHER ERIN SPEAKS. 

[To R. C. returning for a visit to Ireland.] 



And is there a land where Wit, Valor and Beauty- 
Have prizes to win, or achievements to share, 

But, brave in endeavor, and constant in duty, 
And loyal in service, my children are there ? 

Their eyes with the sparkle of humor are lighted ; 

They bear in their hearts, through the exile of years. 
Mirth, music and tenderness ever united. 

The glow of my sunshine, the dew of my tears. 

Though happier lands in adoption may borrow 

The strength and the beauty I reared for my own ; 

And leave me in loneliness, bondage and sorrow, 
To weep unregarded and suffer alone, — 



Mother Erin Speaks. 8^ 

Yet still is the lamp of their loyalty burning, 

Undimmed by the distance, unquenched by the sea ; 

And fond recollections, to childhood returning. 
Are borne on the wings of affection to me. 

And sure there's a smile on the face of the waters ; 

For swift from the West on her home-coming way, 
The kindest and best of my wandering daughters 

Returns to the goal of my bosom to-day. 



1893. 



FAREWELL TO ERIN. 



[To R. C. In an envelope marked " To be opened when you have just 
seen the last of the shores of Ireland.] 



It is not thy sweet daughter whose heart may be light 
Oh Erin, as fade thy loved shores from her sight ; 
And sadly she looks on the waste of the sea, 
With a smile and a tear and a blessing for thee. 

Unto her thou hast ever been gentle and mild, 
A mother benignant and kind to thy child. 
Shall she part with thee then and away to the West, 
Nor long to return and be clasped to thy breast ? 

Sad and sweet are her thoughts of so many bright hours, 
Her memories fragrant and fair as thy flowers, 
And shall she not strain her true eyes for thy shore. 
And grieve that the distance reveals it no more ? 



Farewell to Erin. 8y 

Yet 'tis not as an exile she goes, but to find 
A welcome that's fervent and loving and kind. 
And she bears with her all that is brightest and best 
From the dear Innisfail to the land in the West. 

For the sunshine and the dew of old Erin seem nigh, 
As a twinkle or teardrop is seen in her eye ; 
And make of the silvery fountains, a choice. 
But sweeter the music that speaks in her voice. 

And oh that the vessel that brings her may be 
Safe-guarded from perils of storm and of sea ; 
As by day and by night it wends nearer the shore 
Where impatient we wait to receive her once more. 



A FRIND OF THE FAMILY. 



" Och Paddy," sez Dennis McFagin to me, 

" Ye may sake through the whole of our isle, 
For a finer young leddy than Biddy O'Dowd, 

An' in vain ye'd be sakin' the while. 
If I had a heart, it would bate but for her, 

For Biddy by night an' by day. 
But the wear an' the tare of that batin' is saved 

For me heart she has stolen away. 

" Jist loik at her face to see buty an' grace 

Obsarve her most illigant nose 
Turned up to the sky, — a true Gracian it is, — 

An' be jabers the butiful rose 



A Frind of the Family. 8g 

Would be pale to her chake. She's a buty indade ! " 

Sez he wid a heart-splitting sigh. 
" Then why don't yez marry her, Dinnis me boy ? 

An' shure she'd be willing," sez I. 

" Faith, man, that I would ; I've a snug little hut, 

Three chickens, a goat, an' a pig, 
An' two bags of praties, a bidstid an' chist. 

An illigant house-kapin' rig : 
But her ould mither sez that she'll see Biddy hung 

Afore she gits married to me. 
Shure what shall I do, Paddy ? What shall I do ? 

Indade I'm in torture ! " sez he. 

" Well, Dinnis," sez I, " Pray be quiet. Don't act 

As if wid the cramps ye was sazed ; 
A frind of yer family, iver I've bin, 

Why should the ould woman be plazed ? 
Run off wid the girl, if she's willin' to go 

Wid yez through the thick an' the thin 



go A Frind of the Family. 

Of this cubical sphare, as the skool masthers say 
An' laugh at the ould widder thin. 

" There's Faither O'Rooke, an own cousin of mine, 

An' a praste very pious an' good 
As will couple yez two so securely that yez 

Could niver unhitch if yez would." 
" Och, Paddy ! don't drive me quite out of me mind 

Wid yer lovely suggestions," he cried ; 
" Shure to kape me dear Biddy from flittin' wid me 

Round her waist her ould mither has tied 

One ind of a clothes-line, an' thin round herself 

The other ind fastened so tight 
That tied to her mither by night an' by day, 

Poor Biddy can't git out of sight. 
An' arrah ! it is a most piteous sight 

To see as they move round the house 
Poor Biddy tied fast to her mither. As kane 

As a cat kapin' watch o'er a mouse 



A Frind of the Family. gi 

" Does the widow O'Dowd watch her daughter, an' whin 

I wint me poor Biddy to see 
The widow's ould billy goat come behind 

An' butted me horribily. 
It's a frind of the family iver ye've bin, 

A frind both unselfish an' thrue, 
Och ! Paddy me darlint, have pity on me, 

Me darlint, an' what shall I do ? 

"Well, Dinnis," sez I, wid a tear in me eye 

At his touchin' an' heart-rinden tale, 
" Yer sorrows are gravious an' hard to be borne. 

But I have a plan that can't fail. 
So kape up yer spirits by poorin' some down. 

An' don't give yer sowl to dispair. 
I happen to know that the widow O'Dowd 

To-morrow will visit the fair, 

" To dispinse with a pig that she's raised from a child ; 
She'll have to untie Biddy thin, 



g2 A Frind of the Family. 

An' ye shall be married by Faither O'Rooke 

Afore she gits home boy agin. 
Good night to ye, boy, an' be aisy at heart, 

For all things I'm sure will be right. 
I'll see yez agen in the mornin' " sez I, 

And Dinnis he answered — " Good night." 

Well, the mornin' dawned bright, and the butiful moon 

Sot down in the ocean away, 
An' indade for the time of the year shure it was 

A lovely and illigant day ; 
An' early meself wid good Faither O'Rooke 

An' Dinnis McFagin beside, 
Were walking along to the mansion O'Dowd 

To hunt for poor Dinnis a bride. 

But jist at the turn of the road, who shall tell 

Our horror, dismay an' surprise. 
When drivin' a pig to the market along, 

A turrible sight met our eyes, — 
There urgin' the baste doan the road wid a club, 



A Frind of the Family. gj 

An' scholdin' and schwerin' aloud, 
Tied fast to hir mither the form we beheld 
Of the sharp-tempered widow O'Dowd. 

An' seein' us there, she cried out, spiteful loik, 

To Dinnis McFagin an' me, 
" Yez thought yez could fool the ould woman, me boys, 

But ye can't, she's too cunnin' for yez," 
An' thin she passed on, while the people around 

Laughed loud as poor Biddy went by. 
One rope round her waist, and one wound round her 
neck, 

Loik a lamb to the slaughter to die. 

" Shall we rescue poor Biddy ? Come, now is our time, 
Come on, my brave comrades ! " I cried. 

•' Nay, nay, don't use force ! I've a betther plan far 
Than that," the good faither replied. 

Thin he tould us his plan ; 'twas a charmin' one too. 
" Och, Dinnis," I cried in me joy, 



g4 ^ Frind of the Fatnily. 

Ye'll git the gurl now, I am sartin indade. 
Hurrah for the faither, me boy ! " 

A line sint to Biddy by Molly McGoole, 

Me own second cousin, an' thin 
We pairted to meet at the Widow O'Dowd's, 

Whin the moon should be risin' agin. 



Well, up rose the moon. In no land on the airth 

Is the moon half so round or so big 
As in Ireland. The widow was sot by the fire. 

She had done very well by her pig. 
An' Biddy, still tied to her mither, she rose 

An' come to the window, an' there 
She stood as she tould the ould lady that she 

Might betther injoy the kool air. 

But there 'neath the winder was Faither O'Rooke 
An' Dinnis McFagin an' me ; 



A Frind of the Family. g^ 

He put on her ring, an' thin Faither O'Rooke 

Sez, — " Dinnis, declare unto me, 
That yez take this woman for betther or worse." 

" That I will," Dennis gladly replied 
" Och ! who is that talkin' there now to yez, Bid ? " 

The sharp-eared ould craythur, she cried. 

" Indade, I was singin' " sez Biddy. " Well thin 

" I'm wantin' no music," sez she. 
" I will, mither." Sez Faither O'Rooke 

" An' do yez take Dinnis to be 
Yer husband an' vow to be lovin' an' thrue, 

To cherish, to trust an' obey ? " 
" I do" sez she. "Well, the saints bless ye, me frinds," 

The praste to the couple did say. 

But the ould woman heard. " Git ye out ! " she 
exclaimed, 
In a voice like the pale of the thunder. 
" What I have here jined shall be pairted no more, 



g6 A Frind of the Family. 

By any ould wooman asunder," 
Sez Faither O'Rooke. The ould woman she saw 

At once how the matter stood all, 
An' cried, — " Bad cess to yez ! It is yer work, 

Bad luck to yez, Paddy McCall ! " 
But I only bowed an' " Dear widow," sez I, 

"An' pray, don't be angry wid me, 
It's a frind of the family iver I've bin. 

An' a frind that I iver will be. 



ON THE ST. LAWRENCE. 

(To R. C.) 



The beams of the starlight, that sparkle and quiver 
Upon the dark waters with tremulous light, 

Impatiently range o'er the isles and the river, 
For she they are seeking is absent to-night. 

Though rare is the scene that their radiant splendor 
Illumines, their rays were more fair when they shone 

Reflected in eyes whose sweet light is as tender. 
As pure, and as constant and kind as their own. 

Across the dark current a whisper came stealing 
As spake the still voice of the Star to the Pine. 

"And are you," it questioned, " with shadows concealing 
That maiden whose spirit is kindred with mine ? " 

I spake for the Pine that stood silent in sorrow 
And said to the Starlight : " On paths of the sea 

Go look for that maiden, and find her to-morrow. 
And bear her a blessing and message from me." 



THE HOPEFUL LOVER. 



One who loved truly looked with longing eyes 

On two whom kindred, church and state did bless, 
And thought in envy, " These who may not guess 

A tithe of love yet win the golden prize 

Of union which unkindly fate denies 

To greater love and deeper tenderness." 
Yet did his heart e'en at the thought confess 

More happiness than theirs, and to his eyes 

There came a sudden light, and thus he said 
Unto himself and her he loved so well : 

" Our lot is blessed still, for by love led 

We walk together, though we seem to dwell 

Apart, and some day shall be comforted 

With joy hope paints, but words can never tell." 



NOVEMBER. 



" Make way, make way ! " the heralds cry ; 

(The lusty winds their trumpets blow) 
" Make way, the Frosty King is nigh, 

The monarch of the Crown of Snow ! " 

" Make way ! " And over all the land 
The valleys hear, the hills obey, 
The naked woods submissive stand. 

The fields are robed in brown and gray. 

The forest fires of red and gold 
That blazed upon a thousand trees, 

In leafy embers damp and cold 

Are scattered by the vandal breeze. 

L.ufC. 



loo November. 

" Make way ! " the heralds cry, " make way, 
Your Summer Queen is vanished. 
Bow down before his icy sway 

Who comes to rule you in her stead." 

And lo, the trembUng trees obey. 

Their sad and plaintive whispering 
Breathes no revolt, but seems to say 

"Our Queen is dead. Long live the King ! " 

Yet two refuse his power to own 

Still loyal to the exiled Queen 
The Pine and Cedar stand alone 

And flaunt the Summer's flag of green. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



Oh ! angel voices, ring again ; 

Oh ! blessing of the Christmas, fall 
On beggar's hut and palace hall, 

" God's peace on earth, good will to men." 

Oh ! blessing of the Christmas, bring 
Thy peace to weary hand and brain : 
Break down the thrall of greed and gain 

Let love but for a day be king. 

With ministry of kindly deeds, 
Let men the debt of love repay ; 
There is nor room nor place to-day 

For jarring factions, clashing creeds. 



I02 Christmas Day. 

To-day let him of high estate, 
In loving spirit, learn to call 
Mankind as men his brothers all, 

His friend the beggar at the gate. 

For who, obeying His command, 

Doth serve the poor and succor them. 
Doth serve the Babe of Bethlehem 

With loyal heart and open hand. 



ON NEW YEAR'S DAY. 



To-day, in garments meagre, thin and torn, 

With laggard head and weary sodden feet, 

Unheeded, passing down the storm-swept street, 
I saw my brother, wretched and forlorn. 
I heard men speak in pity less than scorn 

Of misery so hopeless and complete ; 

And as he cowered in the blinding sleet, 
Wrecked, homeless, suffering, on the New Year's morn, 
I too passed by and gave nor aid nor sign. 

" What use," I asked myself, inhumane-wise, 
" Can come from such slight transient aid as mine 

To one like this ? " And so with murderous Hes, 
I stilled the voice of Mercy, the Divine. — 

What marvel that my crime to Heaven cries ? 



A NEW YEAR'S SONG. 



Old Year, good-bye ! with thy joys and fears ! 

Thou hast brought us smiles, thou has brought us tears, 

Glad songs and dreary weeping. 
Good-bye ! Life goes like a fleeting play ; 
We act our parts, and we pass away. 

And soon in death are sleeping. 

Good-bye, Old Year ! While the merry bells 
For thee ring out their loud farewells, 

We smile, but the tears are starting ; 
Little we know what Time may bring, 
Or yet how soon the bells may ring 

The knells of our souls departing. 



A Neiv Year's Song. 105 

Good-bye, Old Year ! Thou hast quickly fled, 
Like a flitting ghost of the restless dead, 

That stealthily doth vanish, 
And leaves no trace but its memory ; 
Like a phantom cloud and strange, that we 

May never hope to banish. 

Good-bye, Old Year, as away you pass ! 
Man's life is that of the summer grass ; 

Few years to him are given. 
But what will the stream of Time e'er be 
In the ocean of Eternity? 

And what is Earth to Heaven ? 

All hail, New Year ! We would fling aside 
The Old Year's folly, the Old Year's pride. 

While we greet thee, hoping, praying. 
That we may live with brave hearts true. 
With Heaven ever in our view, 

Nor from the right path straying. 



io6 A New Year's Song. 

All hail, New Year ! We welcome thee, 
Joyfully, gladly, solemnly ; 

The Future waits before us. 
Our hearts are strong for the toil and strife, 
As we start anew in the race of life, 

And our Father watches o'er us. 



WOMAN'S PRESCIENCE. 

(On reading verses by M. R. M.) 



Sometimes it is a woman's gift to see 

By her white soul's pure light deep hidden things ; 
To find the real in ideality ; 

And, soaring forth on thought's impetuous wings, 

The seas of faith and passion to explore ; 

And gathering knowledge of their mysteries, 
Unscathed and innocent to tell us more 

Than those escaped from rock-wrecked argosies 

Returning of their voyages disclose. 

Sometimes a woman hath such noble dower 
Of prescience that of her own heart she knows 

Mankind's desire and longing pain and power. 

And, her great soul, outpouring into song, 
Gives to them all new voices clear and strong. 



HIGH IDEALS. 

(On hearing sermon by O. H.) 



This counsel " Hitch your wagon to a star," 
A mighty lord of thought's free empire gave. 

He knew that earth and sea and heavens are 
Assured dominion of their spirits brave, 

Who true to high ideals, dare to rise 
Wherever truth and duty lead the way ; 

That no abyss hath terror to their eyes. 

No mystery may their steadfast trust dismay. 

Noble is he who goes that way alone, 
But higher his emprise, who feeling then 

What lofty powers are servants to his own. 
Brings near an equal hope to other men, 

And life and words uniting ceaselessly 
Calls them to like high faith and destiny. 



THE MINSTREL'S SONG. 



" Not mine the song," the minstrel said, 
" Of vanished days or pleasures fled. 
Of love or war, or wassail free, 
I sing of happiness to be. 

" In winter cold and drear I sing. 

The smile and coming of the spring ; 

In desert wilds I sing of showers 

And pleasant streams and fruits and flowers. 

" To them in bonds I sing release, 
To them of strife a-weary peace. 
To souls that thirsting are denied, 
I sing of longing satisfied. 



The MinstreVs Song. 

" I sing in stern and selfish lands 
Of tender hearts and helping hands, 
And wiser thought and gentler creeds 
And kinder words and nobler deeds. 

" I sing the song of better times, 

Of brighter days and fairer climes, 

Of thoughts that comfort, cheer and bless, 

I sing the Hope of Happiness." 



THE TALE OF BALDUR THE GOOD. 



In the old Danish Edda quaintly told 

Are many wondrous and mysterious lays, 

Many strange legends mystical and old 

Of the old gods, who, in the bye-gone days, 
Received the people's reverence and praise. 

There is Hiemdall's story, mighty seer. 

Who from the meadows where the cattle graze 

The growing wool upon their backs could hear; 

No sound, however small, escaped his watchful ear. 

The grass he heard, the growing flowers he heard, 
As slow they raised their heads above the sod. 

The song of every glad and joyous bird. 
The voice of every beast on earth that trod, 



112 The Tale of Baldur the Good. 

Was plainest language to this mighty god. 
Alike to him the ringing battle cry, 

The trampling of the steed with thunder shod, 
And the light footsteps of the tiny fly. 
The trumpet's pealing blast, the infant's dying sigh. 

But sweeter is the tale of Baldur, who 
Was loved by all so well and wondrously 

For his brave heart and noble life and true. 
That slain by cold and heartless treachery 
All of Creation mourned him. Every tree 

Wept for him ; yea, the stones could not forbear 
To join in the deep wail of misery. 

The ocean old, the flowers bright and fair, 

All things together swelled the dirge of sad despair. 

No noise, save that of wild lament was heard ; 

The waters murmured with a wailing sound, 
Hushed was the song of every happy bird ; 

The wind went sobbing mournfully around, 



The Tale of Baldur the Good. iij 

Seeking for one who never should be found, 
And mourning bitterly for Baldur slain, 

Vanished forever from Creation's bound ; 
Then hoarsely whispered with a nameless pain 
To earth and to ocean — " I have sought in vain ! " 

The earth and ocean heard the wailing cry 
Of the sad wind, and from the mountains tall 

The mourning echo rang her shrill reply, — 
" In vain ! alas in vain !" — while over all 
Grim sorrow like a gloomy funeral pall 

Cast her black shadow. E'en the sunlight fled 
To veil her face with clouds, while great and small 

Alike the tears of hopeless sorrow shed, 

Weeping together all o'er the good Baldur dead. 

Such is the legend. " But a myth," you say, 
" Born of man's yearning after things unknown," 

A mystic relic of a vanished day, 

The snows of many winters o'er it thrown. 



114 '^he Tale of Baldur the Good. 

Have hidden it from view. — One leaf alone 
Of an old withered tree, that still doth bloom 

With a fresh life and beauty of its own ; 
That still on this old earth hath found a room 
Despite Time's sickel keen, and the remorseless tomb. 

How many ages hath the hand been cold, 

The heart ceased beating, and to dust the frame. 

Of him who penned this legend strange and old, 
Returned. We do not know his state ; his name 
Hath vanished with him. Pleasure, wealth and fame 

No more allure him. Sorrow or dismay 

Rule not his heart. His glory or his shame 

Is with him hidden in the tomb away, — 

All, all is buried deep with his forgotten clay. 

But still good Baldur's story shall be told 
How all creation mourned for him. May we 

So live that when in death our forms are cold 
Many may weep but not in misery 



The Talc of Baldur the Good. 115 

Over our ashes, rather hopefully 
That we have won a bountiful reward, 

Have gained at last the blessed victory 
Over the grave and death through Christ our Lord 
Whose holy name by all be evermore adored. 



THE LEGEND OF TANNHAUSER. 



Stranger hill man ne'er hath seen 
Than the lonely Horselberg, I ween. 
Rough and rugged, weird and high, 
It darkly frowneth at the sky ; 
No verdue on its summit bare, 

Or lovely flowers, smiling dwell ; 
But the curse of God is written there. 

And men have said that the path to hell 
Leadeth down from the ragged rock. 
Through the dreary cavern Horselloch. 
Roar of waters' angry din 
Is ever, ever, heard within. 
By day, wild wailing, moaning, sighs 
From the fathomless abyss arise ; 
By night, strange shrieks of laughter swell- 



The Legend of Tannhauser. iiy 

But their undertone is a grievous moan ; 

And he that walks in the vale alone 
But saith, " There is — God shield us well — 
Rare revelry to-night in hell." 

Slow did the night's dark curtains fall 

About the bed of dying day, 
As through the lonely Horsel Thai, 

A mail-clad horseman rode his way. 
Across his stalwart shoulders slung, 
The harp of warrior minstrel hung ; 

And, as he rode, a careless lay 
Of love and war the rider sang. 
Full oft the trumpet note of fame 
Had heralded Tannhauser's name ; 
Full oft the gay and gallant knight 
Had sung of love and beauty's might ; 
And well was trained his blade to wield 
By many a dark and bloody field. 
Bold was the minstrel's heart ; but pride 

And lawless passion, smouldered there ; 



ii8 The Legend of Tanyihauser. 

Not In such cloister might abide 

The white-wing-ed seraphim of prayer. 
He lived for pleasure, and for fame ; 

A maiden's smile, a wassail bowl, 
A laurel leaf, a fading name, 

To him were dearer than his soul. 
Yet oft times to his spirit came 

Strange visions of a better life, 
A brighter crown, a purer fame, 

A triumph in a nobler strife. 
But in Tannhauser's restless breast 
Such thought was but a transient guest. 

The minstrel paused ; his song was still. 

Do dreamland's shadows mark his sight ? 
He sees upon the rugged hill 

A lovely lady robed in white. 
The day's last smile upon her beams 

A coronal of golden light, 
Her long dark hair in beauty gleams 

With jewels rare, whose lustre bright 



The Legend of Tannhauser. iig 

But mocks the flimsy vail of night, 
And glorifies her wondrous charms. 
She waves to him her beckoning arms 
And murmurs, " Come ! " The twilight air 
Is filled with song beyond compare. 
Quick from his steed Tannhauser springs 
And Hstens as the siren sings. 

She ceased her song, and up the rock 
Moved slowly to the Horselloch ; 
But as her little feet were pressed 
Upon the mountain's rugged breast, 
Delivered from their prison tomb. 
The roses sprang to joyous bloom. 
Tannhauser paused. Full well he knew 

Her gentle song — a false decoy ; 
Her smile — a blight ; her words — untrue. 

Full well he knew she sang of joy, 
That purchased were at fearful cost, 
A deathless soul forever lost. 
Then lips, which, stricken long before 



I20 The Legend of Tannhauser. 

By Death's cold hand, were hushed for aye, 
Seemed gently pleading, as of yore, 

And urged the tempted soul away. 
Vain plea ! The fated minstrel gazed 

Upon the Horselloch once more, 
And lo ! the cunning siren raised 

Her song more sweetly than before. 

She vanished. But the haunted air 
Was burdened with a fragrance rare ; 
Whilst dying music's lingering breath, 
Low moaning as it sank to death, 
Still hovered nigh. The ravished knight 

No longer waits. The mighty spell 
Hath won. He seeks the lady bright ; 

He follows through the cavern drear — 

A sweeter music soothes his ear. 
He follows still, and all the while 
Hears but her song, sees but her smile. 

But there are sounds he does not hear : 



The Legend of Tannhauser. 121 

He heareth not the brazen bell, 
Whose mighty notes like thunder roll, 

And wake the demon joy of hell — 

Woe in heaven, joy in hell, 
As weiredly, drearily, they toll — 
"A ruined soul, a ruined soul ! " 

Seven years in the mountain halls. 

Seven years of a nameless sin. 
But the joy of the maddening revel palls 

And his better spirit strives within. 
No more may the wassail bring delight ; 

Her beauty hath lost its magic spell ; 
The smiling eyes — so dark and bright, 
Seem gleaming with the baleful light 

Of the fierce and quenchless flame of hell. 
The soft white arms and clinging hands 

No more may soothe with their soft caress 
For his soul is chained by mighty hands 

To a drear and utter wretchedness. 



122 The Legend of Tannhauser. 

Her songs are hateful. To his ear 

They bear a burden of death and dole ; 
For he seemeth evermore to hear 

The knell of hope in his fallen soul. 
He prays release from the cursed thrall ; 

But shouts of mocking laughter swell, 
And drown his voice. His fainting call, 

From the dark and dreary depth of hell, 
Re-echoes, with a weird refrain, 
" In vain, in vain ; in vain, in vain ! " 

" Mary, sweet mother of God," he cried, 
" The chains of hell are about my soul ; 

For the love of Christ the Crucified, 
Set me free from this fiend's control ! " 
A rift appears on the mountain side, 

The mocking laughter at length is still ; 

Burst are the bonds of the prison hill ; 

There are songs of hope in his heart, for he 

From the siren's damning thrall is free. 



The Legend of Tannhauser. i2j 

Pleasantly smiled in the East, the sunlight, in beauty 

proclaiming. 
Like a sweet angel, to men the birth of the roseate 

morning. 
Softly the breath of Spring, perfumed with the odor of 

flowers. 
Kissed the wan brow of the bard ; and borne to his 

ears from the valley, 
With the meek cries of the sheep, was blended the 

lowing of cattle ; 
Whilst the glad songs of the birds seemed heaven's 

evangels of mercy 
To the worn spirit. Uprose the spire of church in the 

distance. 
Softly sounded the bell, repeating its loud invitation, 
CaUing the hearer to prayer. The heart of Tannhauser 

was humbled, 
And with quick, tremulous steps, he hastened his way 

to the village. 



124 "^^^ Legend of Tannhauser. 

Hoping and fearing by turns, he entered the church, 

and a feeHng 
As of an infinite calm bore peace to his tempest-tossed 

spirit. 

Then, when the service was past, he bowed at the altar, 
repeating 

All the dark tale of his sin ; and plead as a child for 
forgiveness. 

" Son," said the priest, " It is not for man in his weak- 
ness to judge thee, 

Yet do I fear that thy sin exceedeth the power of mercy ; 

Higher go thou than to me, I dare not assure thee for- 
giveness." 

Then, with an added weight on his soul, from the altar, 
Tannhauser, 

Turning, departed. Sweet hope had sung in his heart, 
when he entered, 

Pceans of triumph and joy ; but now she was wearily 
wailing 



The Legend of Tannhauser. 125 

Like some sweet bird, which, far from home o'ertaken 

by darkness, 
Chirps its weak, tremulous fear. The sunbeams had 

fled from the heavens ; 
And Hke a conquering host, the clouds spread their 

shadowy banners 
Over the field of the sky, in joy that its glory was 

vanquished. 

To the Pontiff's chair, with a wild despair 

In his hopeless spirit dwelling, 
Tannhauser came, and lowly knelt, 

His dreary story telling. 
Each whispered word Pope Urban heard, 

And sternly made reply : 
" For thee, the fllame that naught may quench, 

And the worm that may not die. 
So foul a sin as thine hath been, 

Is thrice accurst of heaven. 
The staff I hold shall flowers unfold. 

Ere thou shalt be forgiven." 



126 The Legend of Tannhauser. 

Tannhauser turned. His dark eyes burned 

With a strange and baleful light. 
His faith had fled — his hope was dead, 

For the words of cruel blight, 
Like winter's gale, had chilled his soul, 

And cold and heavy-hearted — 
No longer penitent — he rose. 

And from the Pope departed. 
And many a day his weary way 

With footsteps sore he plied, 
Till, as of yore, he stood once more 

Upon the mountain side. 
Again he sees the lady fair ; 

Again he hears her singing. 
The Pope's stern mandate in his ears 

All drearily is ringing ; 
Whilst, looking down with gloomy frown, 

The sullen, starless heaven, 
All ghastly gray, but seems to say, 

" Thou canst not be forgiven." 



The Legend of Tannhauser. i2j 

The white lips breathe a bitter curse, 

Alike on God and men, 
As he enters, through the Horselloch, 

To the revellers again. 

Three days, and lo ! The Pontiff's eyes 

Beheld a wondrous sight ; 
For the hand of God had clothed his rod 

With blossoms pure and white ! 
And Urban proud repentant bowed, 

For he read aright the token ; 
He had doomed a brother's soul to death, 

And the primal law was broken. 
And in his ear rang loud and clear 

The stem demand of heaven : 
"And if ye then forgive not men, 

How shall ye be forgiven ? " 

Swift ride the Pontiff's messengers 
Upon Tannhauser's way. 



128 The Legend of Tannhauser. 

They have scaled the mountains, crossed the plain 

They have ridden night and day. 
They have tracked him to the Horselberg ; 

And now, in the even-tide, 
With jaded steeds and bloody spurs, 

Through the Horsel Thai they ride. 
In the fading light of the gathering night. 

Far up on the mountain bare 
They see a weary, broken man, 

And a lady bright and fair. 
In that fading light, all ghastly white, 

Toward heaven his wan face turns ; 
In his heart the hate of God and man 

Like a hellish fever burns. 
Ride fast ! Ride fast ! Forever past 

Will his day of pardon be. 
If again he fall 'neath the witching thrall 

Of the siren's melody ! 
Night's frowning brow grows darker now, 

And the guilty pair are hidden. 



The Legend of Tannhauser. i2g 

To the mouth of the cavern Horselloch 

The messengers have ridden. 
They hear the sound of a distant song ; 

But they stand by the cave alone. 
Within, the roar of the waves' wild war 

Is hushed to a sullen moan. 
But louder far, than the waters are, 

From the cavern's depth ascending, 
With the wolf's fierce howl and the shrieking owl 

In a dreary chorus blending, 
To the black-robed skies such moan doth rise 

That the bravest pale to hear it, 
Whilst the wind sweeps by with a wailing cry, 

Like a lost and hopeless spirit. 

June 2g, 1881. 



THE VISION OF JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



The low-spoken soft benediction of Slumber 

Had fallen on men from the lips of the Night ; 
Dim phantom-like dreams, without order or number, 

Were whispering sorrow or gentle delight. 
The pale moon afar in the heavens was beaming, 

The smile of the starlight was blessing the sky. 
And shone in the wavelets all silvery gleaming 

That murmuring flowed in their peacefulness by. 

The toil and commotion of daylight were ended 

And over the landscape the Angel of Rest 
Now hovered with comforting pinions extended, 

And wooed the tired spirits of men to her breast. 
All Nature at peace ; — but the war cry at morning 

Would ring its wild notes in the ear of the brave ; 
And hearts whose hot valor met danger with scorning 

Ere night reigned again would be cold in the grave. 



The Vision of Judas Maccabeus. iji 

Encamped on the hillside awaiting the morrow 

Lay Judah's brave army. They knew that the night 
Would herald a Sabbath of death and of sorrow. 

A Sabbath made dark by the gloom of the fight. 
The host of the heathen was come in its power, 

A host like the numberless stars of the sky. 
The fate of the land would be writ in an hour 

Well knew the brave Jews that dread hour was nigh. 

The chieftain, the bold Maccabeus, was sitting 

Alone in his tent. As he read from the scroll 
Of prophecy, fancies of darkness were flitting 

On pinions of gloom, o'er the depths of his soul. 
A moment his thoughts by their presence was haunted, 

But one, — lo ! the shadows had vanished, and then 
The heart that nor danger, nor trial had daunted 

Beat fearless and hopeful as ever again. 

There came to the tent of Judea's defender 
A mystical wonderful vision that night, 



IJ2 The Vision of Judas Maccabeus. 

Which thrilled the bold chief with its beauty and 
splendor 

And nerved him anew for the desperate fight. 
He saw in the moonlight a presence commanding, 

Unearthly, majestic and strange to behold. 
And knew that beside him in glory was standing 

A prophet, a sage, and a martyr of old. 

No more Jeremias his sad lamentation 

Should wail, for the days of his sorrow were o'er ; 
He came as the herald of God to his nation, 

With majesty clothed and accoutred for war ; 
No longer the walls of his mouldering prison 

Might bind the bold spirit devoted and brave ; 
The soul in its glorified strength had arisen 

And shattered the pitiless bonds of the grave. 

What though from the land of the living departed, 
His feet through the vale of the shadow had trod ! 

The cry of the land for its brave and true-hearted, 
Had roused from his slumber the prophet of God. 



The Visio7i of Judas Maccabeus. ijj 

His silvery hair in the moonhght was streaming, 
His face was as that of the angel of old. 

And sheathless and bright in its fierce beauty gleaming 
There burned in his hand a keen falchion of gold. 

He spake ; and there seemed with his voice to be 
blended 

A sound as of music triumphant and high, — 
" To God is the cry of His people ascended. 

The hour of triumph and vengeance is nigh. 
The gold-wrought blade in my hand that is flaming 

The gift of the Lord unto thee that I bring, 
All sternly to men even now is proclaiming 

The Vengeance and Wrath of the Conquering King. 

" Be strong in the battle." — The sunlight was stealing 
Across the green hills, the bright herald of day. — 

Awoke the wild drums. The loud trumpets were 
pealing, 
And lo ! the strange vision had melted away. 



1^4 The Vision of Judas Maccabeus. 

But joy in the heart of the bold Maccabeus 
Abode, and the vision he told to his band, — 

" The sword of the Lord shall be mighty to free us,"— 
He said — " ' Tis unsheathed in the cause of our land." 

Wild rages the battle. The groans of the dying, 

The trampling of horses, the crash of the shield, 
The shouts of the victor, the cries of the flying, 

In wierd Miserere arise from the field. 
But ever is Judah's brave army victorious. 

And ever her war-cry of triumph doth ring, 
An anthem of victory fearful and glorious, 

" The Vengeance and Wrath of the Conquering 
King." 

Night comes, and the host of the heathen is broken, — 
Dark broods the dread angel of Death o'er the plain. 

The word of the Lord in its might hath been spoken, 
Their wisdom is mocked, and their valor in vain. 



The Vision of Jicdas Maccabeus. 135 

Who, who to their land shall return with the story, — 
The proud and the mighty are cold on the sod, 

The strong are brought low, and the blight of their 
glory 
Is written in blood by the falchion of God ? 



HOW FEW ARE THE DAYS. 

(Job, chapter xiv.) 



How few are the days, and how fleeting, of man that of 

woman is born ; 
How troubled by pain and temptation, how mocked by 

misfortune and scorn ! 
As a flower he cometh, but quickly cut down, his short 

summer is o'er ; 
He fades, and hath fled like a shadow, is gone to re- 
turn nevermore. 
There is hope of a tree, when the woodman hath 

brought its proud head to the ground. 
That again it may sprout, and in beauty once more cast 

its shadow around ; 
There is hope, though the root may wax older, the 

stock in the ground die away. 



How Few are the Days. ijy 

That again it may bring forth its blossoms, its boughs 

from the heart of decay, 
But when 7na7i Heth down in Death's slumber, he 

wasteth away. Where is he ? 
Where, where is the flood that decayeth — the waters 

that fail from the sea ? 
Shall we find them ? Ah, no ; they have vanished, — 

the wave drieth up on the shore ; 
So man lieth down, nor upriseth till heaven itself is no 

more. 
He taketh his place 'neath the flowers, earth well doth 

her heritage keep. 
For, till she hath vanished, unbroken, unchanged is his 

slumber so deep. 
His children are honored, — their glory is not for the 

the sleeper to know, — 
Nor doth he perceive their transgressions, or mourn 

when his sons are brought low. 
Thou prevailest against him forever. How feeble, how 

fleeting is he ! 



ij8 How Few are the Days. 

The days of his Hfe Thou appointest : his footsteps are 
numbered by Thee ! 

Oh Thou, in the grave that wouldst hide me till the 
storm of Thine anger is spent, 

Remember Thou me in Thy mercy, and then shall my 
soul be content. 

I wait for my change ; though the body shall moulder 
to ashes away, 

I know that the spirit undying, immortal, shall never 
decay, 

I wait till my days are completed, and then will I an- 
swer Thy call, 

I know that Thy work Thou regardest, and righteously 
judges it all. 

Thou hast sealed up my many transgressions ; my sins 
Thou hast pardoned ; for Thee 

I wait. When my years are completed, O Father, re- 
member Thou me ! 



OUR HOPE HAST THOU BEEN. 

(90th Psalm.) 



Our hope hast Thou been, and our dwelHng in all gen- 
erations, O Lord ! 
Ere ever the earth and the mountains were formed by 

the might of Thy word, 
Ere ever on hillside or valley the foot of the living had 

trod, 
Through ages unknown and unnumbered, Thou art the 

Omnipotent God. 
Eternity bides in Thy presence ; and thousands of years 

in Thy sight. 
Are but as the day that is finished — a watch in the 

gloom of the night. 
Our life is a sleep and a vision, the grass that is green 

for a day ; 



140 Our Hope Hast Thoji Been. 

In the morning it groweth in beauty, ere night it hath 

withered away. 
Consumed are we by Thine anger ; and lo, the fierce 

might of Thy wrath 
Descends on our way Hke a torrent, and bears us aside 

from Thy path. 
Before Thee our many transgressions stand witnessing, 

each in its place ; 
The sins which from mortals were hidden, are clear in 

the light of Thy face. 
The days of our years may be many — fourscore may 

they be — yet their length 
Is still but vexation and trouble ; and labor and sorrow 

their strength. 
Cut off like the grass, in a moment, the proud and the 

mighty are cold ; 
Our days do we spend in Thine anger, our years as a 

tale that is told. 
Afar have we strayed from Thy presence, O, teach us 

to number our days ! 



Our Hope Hast Thou Been. 141 

Incline Thou our hearts unto wisdom that we may de- 
light in her ways. 

Who knoweth the power of Thine anger, the might of 
Thy fear and Thy wrath ? 

How long shall the cloud of Thy vengeance hang lower- 
ing over our path ? 

Let the smile of Thy mercy be on us ; O, speak with 
Thy pardoning voice 

The sweet words of peace to Thy servants, and we shall 
forever rejoice. 

The years which were haunted by evil, the days which 
were troubled and sad, 

Shall be as a dream to the spirit, which in Thy salvation 
is glad, 

Reveal Thou thy work to Thy servants that penitent call 
upon Thee, 

And hear Thou the prayer that their children Thy glory 
unuttered may see. 

Our hands may be faithless and feeble, yet teach them 
to labor aright ; 



1^2 Our Hope Hast Thou Been. 

Establish their work, we entreat Thee, and may it be 

fair in Thy sight. 
Let the sceptre of gold be extended, and banished the 

chastening rod. 
While we walk in the light of Thy glory, arrayed in the 

beauty of God. 



HOW STILL THE NIGHT. 

(In Memoriain — Lucy Eleanor Howells.) 



How still the night ! 
When to her chamber on his silent quest 

Came the Unbidden Guest. 

Thrusting aside each bar 

Wherewith Love strove to stay 

His unrelenting way, 

He found as white 

A soul as lilies are, 
So fair that it may be that awed surprise 

Shone in his sombre eyes. 

And tender ruth 
For purity, and kindness, love and truth, 
Too precious and too rare 
The fate to share 



144 How Still the Night. 

Of the bright fragrant flowers, 
That in the morning hours, 
Of some fair spring-time day, 
Are cut and borne away. 

We may not know 
With what close eager grasp that Httle hand 

Clung to each falling strand 
Of strength and hope and scarce could let it go ; 

What firm and tender ties 
Of love unselfish made her life complete. 

Its joys and duties sweet, 

And made her gentle eyes. 

To all things evil blind, 
Bright with that sweet and gracious charity 

Wherewith some spirits find 
Their features mirrored in humanity. 

And trusting see 
Their own true faith in faulty human kind. 



How Still the Night. i^^ 

And so she died, 
In promise of the springtime of the year, 
In blossom of the promise of her days. 

And by her side 
Were buried many hopes. And words of praise 
As fragrant as the flowers that decked her bier, 
And memories with loving kindness fraught 

And grateful thought 

And reverence of truth — 
These treasures were the wealth that in her youth 

She won and left to bless 

With grace and tenderness, 

All those who loved her dear, 
Or knew, though only for a little while. 
Her acts of kindness and her words of cheer. 
And walked within the sunshine of her smile. 

" To whom be peace ! " 
Love breathes that olden prayer. 
And in its own despair 



I^f6 How Still the Night. 

Still knows the Silent Summons meant release, 
And breaking of the chain, 
Wherewith in bonds to pain 

She walked so long ; 
Patient and brave and strong. 
Though in the cruel way- 
Faltered her weary feet 
So early in the day, 
Her rest be sweet. 



WHEN THIS MAN DIED. 

(In Memoriam— William F. Miller, Died Feb. 15, 1895.) 



When this man died 
He left so many memories, — and yet 
Not one that love would willingly forget : 

For this his praise — 
That truth and honor waited by his side 

Through all his days. 
And deeds of loving, helpful kindliness, 
And earnest purpose and unselfish thought, 

Avowed what ends he sought. 

In youth he heard 
That summons of his country's dire distress ; 

And at the word 
His patriot soul was kindled with the fire 
That blazed on freedom's altar white and high. 



148 When this Man Died. 

Love, fortune, promise — all that men desire, 
In loyal, willing sacrifice he gave ; 

And with the brave 
Went forth prepared to suffer and to die. 

And when at length. 

Stricken, but slow to yield, 

Sadly, with shattered strength, 

Forced from the field, 
Into the peaceful paths of men 

He came again ; 
He saw with wise discerning eyes, — 

Clearer than most men see, — 
Wherein the nation's hope of safety lies, — 

Of peace and liberty ; 
Not in her mighty ships or pondrous guns, 

With thunder fraught : — 
But in her gentle daughters and brave sons, 

Her children, wisely taught. 



WJien this Man Died, 

For this he gave 
For many years the labor of his love. 

He never learned to save 
His strength or toil, for all things else above, 
In civic duty where a people rules 

He held the common schools. 

When this man died. 
And those who loved him gathered mournfully 

At his still side, 
And thought of all his loving kindnesses 
And helpful deeds and gracious charity. 
They knew no voice was raised except to bless, 

That to the gates of Death 

Came no accusing breath. 

With love and honor blest, 

Farewell, true friend and tried, 

Faithful to every trust. 

Gentle and kind and just, 

Sweet be thy rest. 



149 



